


and now, for my final trick,

by orphan_account



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, i don't know what this lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3976402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I love you,” Jake says, and doesn’t think he’s ever meant it more than he means it now. “I love you so much.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and now, for my final trick,

**Author's Note:**

> !!!! domesticity

Jake walks out of their bedroom to find Amy already up and dressed for the day, reading the morning newspaper intensely and chewing a mouthful of muesli with the kind of vigor that, in Jake’s opinion, you should only really bring to Taylor Swift concerts and _Harry Potter_ marathons. Neither of which he has had the pleasure of indulging himself in, but oh, he can dream.

“Morning,” he calls, sitting down at the counter opposite her, grinning lopsidedly at her. There’s a full mug of coffee on his side of the counter, as there always is in the morning, made exactly how he likes it. Good God, he loves this woman so much. Loves her so much he might implode with the force of it.

“Mm,” is the noncommittal reply as she waves her spoon at him in lieu of a proper greeting, thoroughly engrossed in the outcome of a case that she worked two months ago. _GUILTY,_ screams the headline, obviously; Amy Santiago is nothing if not excellent at everything she attempts.

“Who reads the newspaper in the mornings?” he asks, as he does every day, because she reads the newspaper every day, and he’ll _never_ stop being confused by it. “For real, Amy. Even my grandmother has a Twitter account. Granted, the only thing she’s ever posted is a selfie that she accidentally took when she dropped her phone, but it’s there.”

“Look!” Amy says, ignoring his quip about her being more technologically destitute than his elderly grandmother. “I’m in the paper.”

“Oh, that’s a great photo of – hey, I know that guy,” Jake says, looking past the image of her in favor of pointing out the blurry picture of the guilty party. “How do I know him? Refresher course, please.”

“He was hiding out in a safe house,” Amy offers. “We tracked him down after weeks of canvassing. It was the biggest bust of the month. I got a _medal_ for it.”

“Nah, no, none of that stuff,” Jake muses, tapping the picture with his index finger. “He used to sell tacos on the street near here.”

Amy makes a little face.  

“Why does that disgust you?”

A skeptical eyebrow quirks – an expression that Jake has become far too familiar with over the past few months. “Jake, one of the many things he was charged with was violating half a dozen health codes. Put a few people in the hospital because of it.”

“Oh.”

“I hope you never _bought_ any of them,” she adds, looking back down at the newspaper and flipping to the next page.

“No, of course not,” Jake says, unconvincingly.

“Because not only were they very unhealthy, they were also very _unsafe,_ Jake,” Amy chides, and looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you had one of his tacos. You wouldn’t be so irresponsible as to not at least get a check-up, at least, _wouldn’t_ you?”

“I wouldn’t,” Jake mumbles, taking a large gulp of his coffee – which burns his throat going down – and making a mental note to Google how to make doctor appointments later on.

Amy glances at him, then shakes her head in exasperation, pressing her lips together to bite back an unwitting smile. Jake is stunned, for the millionth time, by how _beautiful_ she is.

“I’m not dead yet,” he adds, very unhelpfully.

“Oh, well, neither is Vladimir Putin,” Amy says wryly, taking a sip of her own coffee.

And she smiles for real, unable to contain this one as it bursts through the seams. Her head is ducked, hair brushing her cheekbones as she pretends to scan the words of the newspaper, but Jake can see the gleam in her eyes, and wants so _desperately_ to kiss her.

He tells her so. Amy laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do, I just _told_ you. I’m baring my soul to you, Detective.”

“No, you don’t, because I’ve been eating muesli, and you hate it.”

“Oh. I forgot. You’re right, as usual.”

“Mm,” Amy says, packing whole sentences’ worth of skepticism into one sound.

“I love you,” Jake returns, and doesn’t think he’s ever meant it more than he means it now. “I love you so much.”

“Why, because I compared you to Vladimir Putin?”

“Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> dk why i posted this but alriHGT lmao


End file.
